Gate Watch
by Elros Tar-Minyatur
Summary: The Black Gate of Mordor is guarded by. . . a group of misfits and castaways, and there is a new member of the watch. A quiet, introvereted, artistically inclined orc. Oh, gods.
1. Chapter I

Disclaimer: I do not own anything that Tolkien created.

Author's note: This is _silly_. It is told completely through the strange and slightly wacky viewpoint of the orcs. Thanks to Terry Pratchett for inspiring this story. Read Guards!Guards! or Night Watch if you liked this.

This is Middle-earth.  
It is a wide and varied place, full of interesting people and fantastic creatures. But, as is the case with such places, there is a black spot. This black spot has a name.  
_This_ is Mordor.  
It is a vast and desolate land of ash plains between mountain ranges. It never rains there. There is thunder and lightning of course, because a Dark Lord lives there, and it is Simply Done for a Dark Lord to have Ominous Thunder And Lightning in His Domain. But it never rains.  
There are three ways into Mordor from the Civilized World, more commonly known to one and all as The West. The first is where the two separate mountain ranges just barely fail to meet, creating a gap of just about two hundred miles.  
The West has failed to utilize this gaping hole in Mordor's wall for two reasons. The first is that it happens to be almost five hundred miles away. The second is that there are hostile natives all the way to said gap, and then hostile natives inside said gap, and the blood-pumping organ of Mordor, the Dark And Evil Fortress where the Dark Lord makes Evil Plans, is three hundred miles due west over a barren and dusty plain. That is filled with hostile natives. Bearing objects sharp and pointy enough to take someone's eye out.  
The second way into Mordor is a pass where the western mountains are slightly lower than everywhere else. The West has failed to utilize this gap for three reasons. The first is that there are two city-fortresses that The West itself built, and are now manned by The Dark Lord's Evil Minions (we shall call them 'orcs'). The second is that there is a great big man-eating spider waiting in the upper reaches of the pass. The third is that apparently there are things in the pass's valley that will make a man lose control of his bodily functions and the water makes them go insane.  
The third and final way into Mordor is the second (and behind it the third) gap between the two mountain ranges. The land between the second and third gaps is called Udûn. In the High Elven tongue this means 'hell'.  
The Elves got it right in one.  
The whole space between the gaps is one gigantic bowl, and the scum at the bottom won't come off with just some dish soap and elbow grease.  
In fact, bowl is the wrong word entirely to describe Udûn. More suitable words that come to mind are pit, abyss, a great sodding hole in the ground, and of course, Hell. The latter of course only applies if one subscribes to a religion that says that the nasty people go to a great big black pit when they die.[1]  
Now, one would think that, with The West being the mortal enemies of Mordor and having thrown out the other two ways in as options, would have capitalized on this entrance. And after all why not? It is nearby, close to the pulse of the Dark Lord's Evil Operations, and it has a road leading neatly from the biggest city of the mightiest Kingdom of The West into it. And yet _they have not _capitalized on this entrance.  
One would begin to think that The West is led by idiots, and it's a wonder that Mordor hasn't just overrun them all. But they have an excuse. The reason they haven't capitalized on Udûn is, as one Western General put it, is 'because there's a sodding great wall in the way and I'll be damned if I'm leading a charge at that thing.'  
_This_ is the Morannon.  
Again, this is a High Elven name. The Dark Lord thought of a more suitable name for it, one that reflects the poetic, creative, and subtly gothic nature of His nomenclature. He named it The Black Gate.  
Picture a black iron wall that stretches between two steep, rocky slopes. Now picture that it is thirty feet high. Now picture that two rocky spurs jut out from either side of the gate, and that atop the ends of those two spurs stand two black iron towers. Finally, picture that small, stunted, smelly and somewhat perverse black creatures swarm around everything. The wall-gate, the towers, the spurs, the slopes, the flat dusty areas in between are all positively _buzzing_ with the movements of orcs.  
This _is_ the Morannon, which _is_ the Black Gate of Mordor.  
And it is about to have a new arrival.  
He has a name.  
It is Morsnak.

Morsnak was, of course, an orc. No self-respecting Westerner would burden their child with a name like that.[2]  
For an orc, however, Morsnak was a decent sort. He paid his taxes to the Dark Lord, was kind to the thralls that worked his father's lands, and gave moderate sums to beggars in the streets. He four baths a year, and combed his black, lanky hair into a ponytail to present a semblance of neatness. His clothes were always fairly clean and had a minimum amount of holes.  
Because of all that, his father was ashamed of him. He was known to drink for days at a time after Morsnak took his quarterly bath. In public, he pretended not to be related to his son.  
Now, _here_ is where the story _truly starts_. In the local pub, on a cold winter night, with the only sounds outside being the moaning of wind and of thralls in the fields. Morsnak's father swirled an unidentifiable brown substance in the bottom of his glass. Staring disdainfully at it, he placed it on the filthy bar top with unusual care. For an orc, at any rate. A Westerner probably would have considered cracking the bottom of the glass to be a bit rough.  
Old 'Anal' Pirshak, the barkeep of twenty years, sidled over to Mr. Morsnak. He was cleaning one of the mugs with a filthy rag. When he wasn't mixing drinks, he could usually be found cleaning glasses, earning him the name 'Anal'. But as of yet, no orc had ever been served in a clean glass, so the general consensus was that he threw away the ones he cleaned.  
In a rough tone, a bit like sandpaper, he addressed Mr. Morsnak, "Wossa matter wit yer drink? Is somethin' wrong wit it?" His tone suggested that he was daring Mr. Morsnak to say that something was, indeed, wrong with the painstakingly prepared drink that was giving off a lovely aroma of rotten eggs.  
"Nah," Mr. Morsnak spat on the floor, "It's disgusting as usual Anal."  
Anal Pirshak beamed. "Why the long face though?"  
Mr. Morsnak, who in fact had a very long and horse-like face, frowned at Anal Pirshak, who cowered.  
"I only meant it metaphorically."  
Mr. Morsnak sighed deeply, as people do before launching into a long 'woe-is-me' speech, "It's that no good son-o'-mine. He's trying to get me to pay the thralls! I mean bloody hell," he twisted his face into an even more grotesque shape, "They're thralls ain't they? Its _slave labor_, meaning they don't get paid for workin'!"  
"Always said yer son was a bit of a git," said Anal Pirshak supportively.  
Mr. Morsnak glared, and said softly, "I hope you ain't tryin' to. . . wossname. . . im-somthin'. . ."  
"Impugn," added Anal Pirshak helpfully.  
"Dat's der bunny!" said Mr. Morsnak happily, then lowered his voice back into the low, dangerous tone he had been using before, "I hope you ain't tryin' to impugn on my family, Anal. You know I'm a big man 'round here. . ."  
"And if yer din't like my homebrew I'd've been dead, D-E-D dead before I could blink," recited Anal Pirshak in a bored voice.  
"And don you forget it!" slurred Mr. Morsnak; the after-effects of said homebrew were starting to kick in. After a moment he seemed to remember what they had been discussing. "I dunno _what_ I'm gonna do about that git."  
"You could bump him off?"  
Mr. Morsnak shook his head, "Nah, people frown on patriarchs doin' that sort o' thing in this town. I'd arsk the wife to eat him, but fer some reason she loves the little bugger. I dun get it."  
"Yer could send him off ter the army."  
Mr. Morsnak rubbed the greasy stubble on his elongated chin, "Ye might be onta somethin' there Anal, but they'd reject him, on account of him bein' a worthless pansy. I dun think that he's ever even held a knife properly."  
Anal Pirshak contorted his face into an expression that could show disgust or thinking, or disgust at the prospect of thinking. After a moment, he grinned, revealing rotten teeth. Those that weren't missing that is. He made small shuffling motions and jabbed his index finger into the air repeatedly. Mr. Morsnak watched him curiously for a while. Eventually, Anal Pirshak realized that Mr. Morsnak wasn't going to ask him what was going on, and in a slightly disappointed tone said,  
"You know what they do with orcs that don't make it as soldiers, don't yer?"  
Mr. Morsnak was one of those orcs that knew very little about anything, but was too proud to admit it, so he set off into the dark recesses of his mind to find an answer. After some minutes, he found one.  
"Er, throw 'em off the Morgai for a lark?"  
"Um, no."  
Mr. Morsnak turned sort of a grayish-purple, which was as close as he could get to blushing, given his skin tone. "Oh," he said, "Then what do they do wit 'em?"  
Anal Pirshak beamed with pride at knowing something that Mr. Morsnak did not, "They makes 'em Watchmen."  
"I always thought tha' species transition was impossible."  
"Garn. It's jus' a figure of speech. They jus' give 'em a badge an' tell 'em 'Guard this thingy, Come-What-May. Mebbe will give yer a medal later."  
Mr. Morsnak stroked his chin, hoping to look as though he was deep in thought. He looked at his glass, slowly leaking the molasses-like substance onto the counter. He looked up, "D'they get paid, Watchmen?"  
Anal Pirshak nodded, "Yep, almost as much as soldiers. They don't do much neither. Mostly they jus' ring there bell and shout 'All's Well' every hour."  
"I dunno, that whole bell-ringin' thing might prove to be a bit much for Morsnak. He ain't right in the head, y'know."  
"Nar, that's where they put all the rejects. He'll fit in all right."  
"Yeah, might do." Mr. Morsnak traced a pattern on the bar top with his finger. He jerked up, "Hey! How come we never see no Watchmen 'round here?"  
Anal Pirshak looked around wildly: this was unfamiliar territory. "Er," he cast around for a reason, "Er, it's on account of us bein' so far away from the. . . er," he paused, "Wossat called? It's an organ of some sort, I know that."  
"Appendix?"  
"Thass only in books, I thought."  
"Nah, s' on the intestines. Liver?"  
"Tha' can't be it."  
"Kidneys?"  
"Nope."  
"Spleen?"  
"Thass it! On account of us bein' so far away from the Spleen of It All. They don' need Watchmen 'round here. Nothin' worth guardin', see?"  
"I think so. That settles it!" Mr. Morsnak tried to bring his hand down on the bar top in a decisive slap, but missed and fell off his stool. He shouted from the floor, "I'm sendin' that little bugger to the Watch!"  
Outside, the thralls labored on. 

-----------------------

[1] So of course the orcs did not name Udûn, because they, in fact, rather enjoy slithering around in the kind of darkness that one only finds at the bottom of a really big pit. They believe that when a particularly nasty and evil (read: a rather decent sort if they could stop clubbing people for no reason) orc dies, they go to a clean white room where nicely dressed people politely offer them cucumber sandwiches and make small talk about the weather for eternity.

[2] Morsnak is either the Orcish version of 'Maurice' or 'Prophet of the Ending of Time'. Sources vary.


	2. Chapter II

Morsnak looked miserably out of the back of the wagon. His father had been unwilling to spend money for a carriage, and Morsnak could no more ride a horse then he could fly. It looked as though Morsnak senior's grand plan to rid himself of his pathetically useless son was going to fall through.

Then, during another bout of drinking, 'Anal' Pirshak had brought up the suggestion of the dung carts. It was an instant hit with the drunken Morsnak senior.

At least once a month, carts arrived from the more important regions of Mordor loaded with dung. The wagon-masters and their crew stayed in the town for three days, made a mess, and solidly booked the calendars of the orcs-of-negotiable-affection. They then left back to the more important regions, loaded with useful goods.1 The dung was used to fertilize the fields.

After that, it had been a matter of waiting until the next dung-train came in. Morsnak senior had done a bit of negotiating with the wagon-master and, after five chairs and two tables had been broken in the inn, he had agreed to take Morsnak on one condition.

And so, eleven days later, Morsnak sat in the back of the dung cart that contained rejected dung. It was too runny, too lumpy, or too undigested to use for fertilizing. By the time the dung train got back to Gorgoroth, it would be too rancid for even the cooks to use. It could always be bunged to the trolls.

Morsnak felt a deep sense of kinship with the dung.

Not, of course, he told himself, because he looked or smelled anything like the dung, but because he was, for lack of a better word, useless. Both he and the dung weren't fit to do the tasks they were expected to do, and would be passed along as fast as possible until someone ate them.

And it was very likely that someone would end up feeding Morsnak to the trolls. Orcs had never been, and probably would never be, creatures who appreciated fine art. Their idea of classical music was listening to a drunken woman sing 'The Maiden and the Hedgehog' with jaw harp and banjo accompaniment. Their contribution to the visual arts was smearing some poor sod's innards all over a wall.

'Sometimes the pancreatic juices mingle well with the blood to form a nice orangish pigment,' thought Morsnak, losing himself, as all artists do, in the minor intricacies of art, 'And if you're lucky, sometimes there's a great example of neo-cubism; sort of a blood and fluids outline. Not to mention that there's nothing like a good brain tissue smear for a surrealism painting.'

No. Morsnak shook his head. Those were _orc_ thoughts. He was an _artist_, an artist in an artistic wasteland. At least in Nurn there were some thralls that had a basic grasp of post-Dol Guldurian sculpture. Just a few, however; knowledge of romantic sculpture wasn't exactly a thrall survival skill. It wasn't an orc survival skill when you got right down to it.

Morsnak stood up in the middle of the semi-dung-free space that had been cleared for him in the center of the cart. Just visible through the steaming mounds of rejected feces was the magnificent view of Gorgoroth, if rolling panoramas of dust, rock, ash and more dust were your idea of a good time.

He could paint that, he decided. Yes, a nice acrylic, with some of that chartreuse paint he had bought specially from Umbar. He wasn't entirely sure how he would work that in, but by the Valar he was going to.

Adopting Classic Artist Pose #1 (putting the thumb up in front of the face, squinting, and sticking out the tongue while occasionally bobbing the head and muttering things like 'perfect' and 'this will be a masterpiece'), Morsnak peered around the piles of stool and sized up his painting. He dug into his rucksack for a bit of paper and a brush...

And the cart stopped.

He was flung to the rear of the cart, landing face first in the offal. It really was quite rancid. For a few moments, he truly became one with the dung. It was almost a pleasant feeling, the smell aside.

Then he started to suffocate.

As he struggled to get free, he could hear a somewhat muffled amused cackle in the background. Then came words,

"I'd stop yer rollin' around in me merchandise, but yew look like yer havin' to much fun! Hahaha!"

The wizened and wispy-haired orc slapped his inner thigh, and instantly regretted it. He sauntered off as Morsnak pulled himself free of the dung. Morsnak wiped the excrement off of his face as best he could, then found time to sigh at the lack of the second 'o' of the word 'too' the old orc's sentence.

Gathering up his meager possessions, he staggered out of the cart and directly into the wagon-master. Several seconds passed. Morsnak did his first-ever push-up to haul himself out of the muck-filled ditch.

"'M sorry," he mumbled.

"You'll be sorrier if yew ever bump into me again!"

"'M sorry."

"And dun you fergit it!"

"Yes, sir."

"Now bugger off!"

"Here, sir?"

He narrowly dodged the kick. He crawled on his hands and knees out of the ditch and past the wagon-master, who kicked him. Somersaulting away to the wicked delight of all, the nasty little voice in Morsnak's head told him that this was going to be harder than expected.

It was later. The great barracks of the Udûn City Watch loomed above him. Three stories of dark, blank and decisively un-cheerful windows gazed down at Morsnak in mixed disbelief and disgust. Morsnak gulped, clutched at the bruise on his throat with his right arm, and groaned at the intense pain from the joint. Three muggings (one from a beggar with no legs and a terrible case of hacking cough) had not improved his outlook on the future.

"Someone up there hates me," muttered Morsnak. Yes, he thought bitterly, that someone is my father. Kinship with dung and such. Shouldering his bag, he took a deep breath, winced at what was probably a bruised rib, and walked in.

It was dark inside the watch house, and from all around him he could hear muttering, as though from far away. He took a step forward.

Now, most orcs could see in the dark, but Genetics had been dealt a bad hand when it came to Morsnak. He had eyes that were rather more like a human's, e.g. he could not see if there was no light. Granted, he had also been dealt Cleanliness and Artistic Aptitude, but in the orcish world, those were easily trumped by Blood-lust and Sadism. So, the point is, Morsnak could not avoid what happened next.

He tripped on a loose floorboard and fell flat on his face.

Said face turned red, or close to red at least, as he heard the roar of laughter all around him. As his eyes, currently at floor level, adjusted to the darkness, they made out a pair of boots. Slowly, he looked up at the biggest orc he had ever seen. With no apparent effort, the orc grabbed him by the collar and lifted up so they were face to face.

"'Lo," squeaked Morsnak nervously.

"Who're you?" boomed the big orc.

"Name's Morsnak."

There was more laughter. There was a shade of a grin on the big orc's face, but it quickly disappeared.

"Shut up!" he roared, "Let the orc speak will yer?"

There was a mumbled chorus of, "Yes Sarge."

"Now," rumbled the big orc, rounding back on Morsnak, who cowered, "Woss your business here at the watch... Mr. Morsnak?"

Morsnak ignored the snicker from the back of the now visible crowd. Drawing himself up as best he could while hanging in midair, he said, "I've been sent to join the Watch. May I speak with the commanding officer? Please," he added after taking another glance at the big orc's muscles.

"Captain Shagwakh ain't in right now. You can sit in his office if you like. I'm Sergeant de Massive, by the way. But you can call me Gromwûsh. Or Sarge if that's more your taste."

"Massive... that's an interesting family name," Morsnak said, making a brave stab at polite conversation, "What does it derive from?"

"It don't de-rive from nothin' nancy-boy," said a nasty looking little orc in the front of the crowd, "Everyone just calls him Gromwûsh de Massive, cuz he's so big, ye see?"

"Oh, so he's Gromwûsh _the_ Massive."

"Yeah, I suppose thass how you highbrow posh types would say it."

"Erm, Sergeant?"

"Yes?"

"Could you, er, put me down?"

Sergeant Gromwûsh relinquished his grip on Morsnak's collar, and he fell to the floor with a dull thud. As he scrambled to his feet, he took in the faces of the finest Mordor had to offer.

There was the orc who had spoken to him before. Genetics had dealt him a fine hand, for a goblin. He had crooked arms and walked bandy-legged. His eyes seemed to bulge out of his head and squint suspiciously at the same time.

There were four or five orcs that had a generic, 'I'm disposable' look about their faces, and were built like wrestlers.

And finally there was an orc that looked as close as an orc can come to Santa Clause. He was, well, fat, but it only showed where it oozed out around his highly stylish and engraved breastplate. Wispy gray hair framed a chubby face with the barest trace of a beard on his chin, and he had rosy dimples, which were, given his skin tone, a shade of neon green.

He felt a large, well-muscled hand on his shoulder. Oh, yeah, there was Sergeant Gromwûsh de Massive as well. Morsnak took a mental note to stay near him; he generated an aura of Universal Sergeantness, which included protecting rookies from sneering veterans.

Sergeant Gromwûsh led Morsnak up the stairs; his heavy footfalls making the stairs tremble. Morsnak stayed as close as he could to the massive orc without actually touching him; the rest of the orcs were following them up the stairs at a respectable distance.

At the top of the stairs Gromwûsh turned right and opened a door with a golden plaque on it. The plaque was engraved with the words _Shagwakh de Vile, Captain_. Morsnak timidly nudged Gromwûsh as they entered.

"Is the Captain a noble?"

Gromwûsh paused for a moment and screwed up his face in thought. Morsnak could see the gears turning. After a moment, the massive orc rumbled, "I dunno about him being noble, but...he does seem to be a bit more high-brow than the rest of us."

Looking at the low hanging eyebrows of the other members of the watch, Morsnak muttered, "Not that that would be hard in any case."

"Look here," said the crook-armed orc, "Just 'cause our Cap'n innit a snotty nob like you, it don't make you any better'n him or him any worse then you." He looked vaguely proud at such a stunningly sophisticated verbal defense.

"I wasn't suggesting that," said Morsnak hurriedly, glancing at the large knife at the orc's side, "I was just inquiring if the plaque was just more colloquial bad spelling."

They all stared at him.

"Er," said Morsnak.

Sergeant Gromwûsh cleared his throat, "You can sit down if you like."

Morsnak sat down gingerly in one of the several spindly chairs that were scattered seemingly at random about the office. The wood was rough and splintery, and smelled vaguely of mothballs. For a few minutes, everyone stared at one another in awkward silence. Morsnak rapped his knuckles on the chair arms in the way that only the truly nervous can manage. A sudden snap and few swear words with eyebrow burning power broke the silence.

"Son of a soddin' barstard!" shouted the goblin-like orc from Morsnak's side. Both of his hands were in Morsnak's bag, and just visible in the opening were two of his spindly fingers caught in the metal hinge of Morsnak's self-designed collapsible easel. "What the hell is this thing?"

Sergeant Gromwûsh stood up so fast that he knocked his chair over, darted across the room, and yanked the homemade easel off of the orc's fingers. He immediately stuffed them into his mouth, risking poisoning, and began to suck on them.

"It's an easel," said Morsnak, drawing more blank looks.

"It's a type of folding chair," said the Santa Clause-esque orc, "Easy to carry, and very light."

"'S'smart," said one of the disposable orcs.

"Mmf mmf mmmmmf mmmf!" the goblin-orc screamed through his fingers.

"Serves you right for trying to pinch the orc's folding chair, Zagluk," Sergeant Gromwûsh rumbled disapprovingly, "You _know_ we aren't supposed to do that to guests..._Corporal Grishrat you put that tub of whatever-it-is back in Mr. Morsnak's bag_"

Corporal Grishrat, who had wandered over after Gromwûsh, held up the jar of chartreuse paint, "'S rouge!" he said happily, "My wife buys this from Sharahk the Vendor for about three dollars a bottle. But this looks like high quality stuff, where'd you get it?"

"I ordered it special for Umbar," said Morsnak, dazedly. "And it's paint!" he added, regaining his composure, "And that's not a chair," he said hotly, "That's for holding up the paper while I paint on it!"

"Mmf mmf mmf mmf mmf mmmmmmmf?"

"What kind of snotty nob thing is putting paint on a paper?" Translated another orc.

"Yeah," said another, "everyone knows that paint and paper are for eating."

"Its _art_!" said Morsnak in angry disbelief, "Surely even you cultureless slobs have heard of _art_!"

"Oh yeah," said Corporal Grishrat uncertainly, "That's when you make a blood n' guts outline of a corpse and the blood and pancreatic fluids mix to make a pleasant orange color...innit?"

"NO!"

All the orcs winced as the all-caps sentence hit their sensitive ears. They stared at their feet as they shuffled them in an embarrassed manner while Morsnak flared his nostrils. It was a wonder he wasn't dead yet. After a bit, one in the back spoke up timidly,

"Thass where you get a bunch of namby-pambies, no offense meant o' course," he added hurriedly, noting Morsnak's face, "And they paint picshures of young wimmin' in the nudd."

Morsnak softened, "Almost. _Sometimes_, immature artists will paint pictures of women in the nude, but we call those 'portraits' and I pride myself on not doing them."

Zagluk pulled his fingers out of his mouth, "So what do you do then?"

"I do group portraits on occasion..."

"Lossa wimmin' in the nudd," translated the intellectual.

"...landscapes..." Morsnak went on, ignoring him.

"Wimmin' in the nudd on a well manicured lawn."

"...surrealist images..."

"Wimmin in the nudd with her nose where her eye should be and her mouth where her ear should be."

"No, that's cubism," Morsnak corrected, in spite of himself.

"Oh," said the intellectual, "What's surrealism then?"

"That would be a green nude woman with seven eyes walking through a forest of liquid clocks."

"Right, then. Carry on with your rant."

"And I do sculpting on occasion," Morsnak finished.

All the orcs looked to the intellectual for translation.

"Er," the intellectual said, "I think thass when you have a woman in the nudd what you can actually touch and feel."

"What?" asked Sergeant Gromwûsh, "Like those doll things that Sharahk was selling a couple of days ago."

"Oh yeah," said Zagluk, "The ones he was advertising as 'the perfect gift for the lonely male."

"I don't think that it's quite the same. I think those are used for...erm," Morsnak started.

He was saved from embarrassment when the be-plaqued door swung open again, this time with a vaguely ominous creak.

"What's all this then?"

In a nearly synchronous movement, every orc in the room turned to see Captain Shagwakh de Vile enter his office. Sergeant Gromwûsh snapped to attention and ripped off a textbook salute.

"Sah! Civilian artist to see you here, sah! Think he might be a nob, sah!"

De Vile sighed heavily, "At ease Sergeant." His gaze swept the room, pausing on Zagluk, who was attempting to salute and suck the fingers of the same hand at once. It moved on, and came to rest on Morsnak, who flinched.

De Vile raised an eyebrow, "And what can the Watch do for you, Mr...?"

"Morsnak," said the same, "I'm here to join the Watch, sir."

"Deliberately?" said De Vile incredulously, and was joined by every other orc in the room.

"Er...uh...no," said Morsnak, "Sometimes I pretend that I had a choice, but it was either go, or get bashed over the head with a bottle, be trussed up like a Dark Lord Day present and left on the Watch house door step with a note stuffed in my mouth."

"Wouldn't the ink get runny?"

"I didn't mean it literally sir."

"Ah."

De Vile walked around the Watchmen and Morsnak and sat at his desk. He picked up one of the items, which could only called paper in the most generalized sense of the word, on his desk and started to read. He wasn't very good at it. There were a great many things Captain De Vile could do with both hands tied behind his back, but reading was not one of them. Then again, thought Morsnak, this being Mordor, it was a small miracle that he could read at all.

Sergeant Gromwûsh coughed softly next to Morsnak. De Vile roughly scratched something down with a ragged quill. He put the paper down and picked up another. There was a muffled swearing from the back of the group; someone had just stubbed their toe.

Sergeant Gromwûsh coughed again, a bit more loudly. De Vile roughly scratched again, this time; however, it was his nose that was the target. Sergeant Gromwûsh swallowed heavily and, with the air of a man jumping from a very high platform into a very small pool of water, coughed very loudly indeed.

De Vile looked up from the maybe-paper. "I have a lozenge in my desk somewhere, Sergeant."

"I was just wondering if I should swear Mr. Morsnak in, sah."

"Were you?"

Sergeant Gromwûsh looked hopelessly puzzled. This was intense verbal riposte, and he had trouble keeping up. He was good at asking questions2, but he was bullocksed when it came to answering them3.

"I was sah!"

De Vile sighed heavily, and made a reach for his lower desk drawer. At the last moment he restrained himself and mumbled something under his breath that sounded to Morsnak like 'I am strong, I am an individual, and I do not need alcohol to complete me. I do not need alcohol. If I want to make the world look better I must go and do it myself. How bloody encouraging.' He looked back up at Sergeant Gromwûsh, who seemed to think that he had scored a point with his new answer.

"Highly sensible of you Sergeant," he said.

"Sah!"

De Vile sighed again, "Swear him in Sergeant."

"Sah?"

"Short version."

"Sah!"

Sigh. "I do not need alcohol," came the mutter.

Sergeant Gromwûsh turned about on his heel to face Morsnak. He swelled his chest up in true sergeant fashion, and shouted, "D'you, Morsnak, promise to serve the Udûn City Watch, today, tomorrow, Wednesday, next Thursday..."

"_I do not need alcohol. I am a strong person_."

"...the week after that, and possibly even next month, on pain of getting your head, right leg, left leg, right arm, left arm, abdymin..."

Captain De Vile's hands seemed to be having a fight over which one would be the first to get to the liquor.

"...chest and tonkers kicked in?" Sergeant Gromwûsh lowered his voice to what he probably thought was a conspiratorial whisper, but still made the whole building shake, "D'you like the oath?" he asked Morsnak, giving him a dig in the ribs and grinning, "I wrote it meself."

"I was just wondering what the long version was."

"Oh, I go over every day, and every body part, 'stead of just general."

"Oh dear."

Gromwûsh raised his voice again, "Well? Do you?"

"Er," said Morsnak, who was in the middle of having serious second thoughts about the whole thing.

"Welcome to the watch!"

"But I didn't..."

"Er, yes, they both mean the same thing, don't they?" grinned Sergeant Gromwûsh, "don't spoil the moment."

"What moment?" asked Morsnak, looking at the half conscious orcs staring off into space and Captain De Vile having a personal crisis behind his desk.

"Are ye daft? Of course there's a moment! Everyone in tears and someone passes someone else a hanky and little birds alight on yer arm. They make fine eating. There's always a moment for summat as mon-u-mental as this. Read it inna book once, well, I had some bugger read it for me anyway."

Zagluk piped up from the back, "Well, it looks as though the Captain is about to cry. Buggered if I know what yer gonna do for the little birds though. I could go round up some of the crap-eating ones from out back if ye like."

"Ugh, no thanks, but I'd rather stick my arm in a troll's mouth than have one of _those_ alight 'pon me arm."

"I could go pick up a chicken from Ragwakh the Butcher's."

"I think I'd rather just go without if it's all the same to you," said Morsnak.

Sergeant Gromwûsh shrugged, "Suit yerself."

De Vile looked up from his desk, "Are you finished, then? Good. Show Lance-Constable Morsnak to his locker, and outfit him with whatever we've got in the bins downstairs. I hope we can find something that will fit him," he added, surveying the quite small and scrawny Morsnak.

"Right you are, sah!"

Sergeant Gromwûsh placed a giant hand on the newly minted Lance-Constable Morsnak's shoulder and led him out of the room. He did not notice how Morsnak's knee's buckled under the weight of his arm, or how the new Lance-Constable staggered out of the room. Nor did he realize the sniggers of the orcs once they thought he was out of earshot.

The thuds of Sergeant Gromwûsh's footsteps died away. Died away meaning that they became merely deafening, of course. Captain De Vile went back to his paperwork, his free hand groping for the handle to his desk drawer.

He felt a scabby hand grasp his own. He looked up to see Zagluk's concerned face. If a face like that could support a concerned expression that is. Zagluk had a face that, if he were a field surgeon, a patient that looked up and saw his face might decide that death wasn't so bad after all.

As it was, Captain De Vile started. "Good grief Zaggy," he said breathlessly, "Don't _do _that! You know it scares me shi- it scares me a lot."

"Sorry sir," said 'Zaggy', "But you've been sober for a year now. And we all know what happens when you're not."

"Yeah," mumbled Corporal Grishrat, "Things are always more interesting. Remember that time when you were hammered in The Pits and that one bugger had a little knife and mascara and you said-"

"Yes I remember Grishrat. I'd also be happy if you never mentioned that again. Especially not to Lance-Constable Morsnak. He's still young and impressionable."

"Right sir."

Shagwakh de Vile reached down to the desk drawer again. This time Zaggy blocked it with his leg. Not even the boldest man or the troll who has eaten the most rotten feces would dare touch regions of Zaggy that were below the naval and above the ankles. De Vile drew his hand back and glared at Zaggy.

"Corporal Zagluk, kindly remove your leg from the path of my desk drawer, lest you find your head stuffed in it whilst I shut it."

"I thought you were going to those meetings, sir. You know; the ones you took me to. Because you told me they had free coffee and doughnuts, which they didn't," he added reproachfully.

"Fat lot of good it does, standing up and saying 'I'm Shagwakh de Vile, Captain, Udûn City Watch, and I have been alcohol free for a year," grumbled De Vile.

"It's the group unity that helps, sir," added Grishrat helpfully, "You know, like the time we were down in Shantytown4, and there was that one female impersonator, and she, er, he-"

"Corporal, I would greatly appreciate it if you did not talk to Lance-Constable Morsnak at all."

"Yessir."

De Vile sighed, "I just wanted one drink. One drink."

"I know how it goes sir," said Zaggy, "Iss your motto or somethin' innit? One drink is too many, two is not enough?"

"No. Our motto is, 'Together, we are a mean lean alcohol free machine.'"

"Oh."

"Indeed."

"It bloody sucks sir."

"I always need a drink after Gromwûsh swears somebody in. It's that bloody oath!"

"It makes him so happy to say it sir."

"I know, I know. But it still gives me a headache. Morgoth on a crutch! Who was the last one we swore in?"

Zaggy looked up at the ceiling, at the floor and around the room with his tongue hanging out. This was his equivalent of thinking. "Er," he said, glancing again around at the now-vacant room, "That would be ol' 'Please' Morrat, we swore him in almost..." there was a pause in which 'carry the three' could be heard, "eighteen months ago sir."

"Good grief, you're right. I haven't seen him around lately, come to think of it," mused De Vile, "Has he been ill?"

"'S been dead for about a year sir. You wouldn't remember his funeral; you were still drinking at the time," said Grishrat reproachfully.

There was a long awkward pause.

"'M sorry lads," said De Vile, "It's just that it's been so long, and everything's happening so fast, an' I don't notice as much when I'm sober. He was a good copper."

"We know sir."

There was another awkward pause.

"Zaggy?"

"Yessir?"

"Could you be so kind as to put the bottle back in the drawer and the six dollars, four pence, hanky, notebook, and pen back into my pocket."

"Yessir," said Zaggy morosely.

"And never do that again."

"Yessir. Sorry, sir."

Corporal Grishrat went off duty twenty minutes later to go home to his wife. Alone of all the watchmen, he had found love that had not been purchased in convenient amounts of spare change. Captain De Vile continued to read his reports, occasionally pausing when he came to difficult words, such as 'the'.

Sergeant Gromwûsh stomped into the room, followed by Lance-Constable Morsnak. At least, he was followed by a pile of loose-fitting clothing and armor, in which Morsnak was probably buried. It was either that or the clothes had developed sapient life-forms that were dragging them around. Given the state of the uniform, it was not entirely implausible.

The pile of clothing attempted a salute. De Vile sighed,

"I'm afraid you'll have to be specially fitted Lance-Constable."

"It would seem so sir," said the slightly muffled voice of Morsnak.

"See to it when you go off duty tomorrow morning. Do you have any money Lance-Constable?"

"A little sir."

"Good. There is a tailor on Thespian Road who gives discounts to watchmen; provided that Gromwûsh is around, of course."

"Of course sir."

"You'll be going on your first patrol tonight. With Corporal Zagluk, because his regular partner is taking time off for his mother's funeral. That's the third one this month actually."

"Delighted sir." The voice was laden with sarcasm.

"Are you sure that's wise sir?" asked Sergeant Gromwûsh in his vociferous whisper, "I don't think Morsnak can defend himself too good."

De Vile looked at the pile of clothing again, and then at the gangly form of Zagluk. "You're absolutely right, Sergeant.

"Thank you sir."

De Vile turned to Zagluk, "You are not to pickpocket your partner. Do you understand, Corporal?"

"Not even just some loose change?"

"Corporal!"

"Oh, all right, all right. I won't hurt the little bugger. Mind you, I'd have trouble finding anything in those pockets."

"Too right," said Morsnak, from somewhere in the heap.

"Sergeant," said De Vile, "I would be much obliged if you would go round up the others who are on-duty tonight. They seemed to have wandered off."

"You can't take your eyes off 'em for more than three minutes before they wanna drink," said Gromwûsh disdainfully.

"Wish I could say the same."

"Sir," began Gromwûsh reproachfully.

"Just go get them Sergeant."

"Yessir."

De Vile turned to the heap of clothing that was probably Morsnak. It moved slightly. "Can you move in all that, Lance-Constable?" he asked.

"I suppose so sir."

"Perhaps you'd like to go plain-clothes until you can get fitted?"

"That would be nice sir."

"You could wear your helmet, and you've got your badge..."

"Yes, I've got my badge."

"Carry your truncheon and I suppose it would be alright."

"Thank you sir."

Sergeant Gromwûsh returned with two of the generic disposable orcs just as Morsnak emerged from the mound of garments. He saluted, just because he didn't know what else to do.

"Night shift reporting for duty, sah!"

"Right," said De Vile, "Well, I've got some news. Some daft bugger lost another bloody battalion of Haradrim," he snorted, which seemed to convey a general feeling of 'good riddance to them', "Over by the crossroads."

There was a general nod, even from Morsnak. It was the opinion of probably every orc in Udûn that, though fierce warriors, the Haradrim could probably not find their own buttock with both of their hands and the hands of all their comrades.

"It is said that Ithilien rangers did it."

There was a general slapping of palms to foreheads, the latter term being used loosely.5 Even if the Haradrim warriors had considerable trouble finding their buttocks, they were experts on buttock-navigation compared to the Ithilien rangers, who, it was said, could not find their buttocks with both hands, the hands of everyone in Gondor, a map and a team of Sherpa guides. It was almost disgusting that they had killed all of the Haradrim. Almost. When humans fight humans, orcs are always the winners, because that means there are fewer of the buggers running around the place messing everything up. Oh, and the crows get something out of the deal as well.

De Vile cleared his throat and continued, "Minas Morgul," he pronounced the name with all the hatred of a nine-page rant compressed into two words, "Is sending out their last regiment; there's something _big_ going on." He paused in such a way that they knew the next word would be but. "But," he paused while there was a group affirmative nod, "our very own Dark One is a tad jumpy for some reason, so he's summoned two regiments of Easterlings. They'll be here in a few days."

There was a groan from all those gathered. Except Morsnak, of course, as he didn't have a clue what was going on.

"Not them!" moaned Zagluk, probably for Morsnak's benefit, "They're the worst. Remember the last time they were here? I don't have to remind you about what happened to old 'Gaskin' Ratsahk, do I?"

There was a mutter of general agreement from all and sundry. Except Morsnak, because he was still smiling dazedly and wondering what was going on.

"Don't give me that, Zaggy. You'll all get through this. Right, so you know what to do, right? Stay away from the pits, stay out of sight and above all, _don't arrest anyone_."

"Yessir," they chorused

"Don't arrest anyone?" Morsnak whispered to his new partner, "I thought that was the whole point of what we do."

Zaggy stared at him. After a moment he said, "Do you have a death wish, kid?"

"Not that I'm aware of."  
"Then you'll not arrest anyone that could possibly fight back. They tend to frown on that, if you know what I mean. Mind you, this is still a good job lad."

"Oh," said Morsnak, sounding vaguely disappointed, "So what _do_ we do?"

"Have a quiet smoke out of the wind and mump free beer off'f people."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

They walked out of the room, down the stairs and out the door. The shadows were lengthening and dark was approaching quickly.

"I thought you said this was a good job," said Morsnak, with a trace of whine in his voice.  
"The best there is, kid. Where else do you get paid to stay out of trouble?"

1 It always seems that the areas that are considered 'least important' produce valuable items that fuel the military and economy of nations, and all the areas considered 'most important' produce is fertilizer.

2 Of which he had a reservoir of three. Did you do it?, Who threw this [bottle/stone/knife/other] at the bartender?, and of course, Which way is it to the restroom (he used to have a much more coarse way of asking this one, but as will later be seen, he attempted not use it, out of deference to Morsnak.)

3 He only had one answer, which was 'Sah'. This was usually only a problem when people told him a joke at parties.

4 Because it never rains in Mordor, the only reason to have buildings it distinguish what's inside from what's outside. The Dark Lord finds it convenient to house his troops in shacks. Due to the size of his armies, the shack-towns can get quite expansive. The nearest one to Udûn was forty miles away, and the citizenry called it shanty town and sneered, because their roofs were made of wood that was only near-rotten as opposed to crumbling.

5 Gromwûsh's forehead should have been called a fivehead. Or possibly even a sixhead. You could have used it as a table. In an unusual display of intelligence and self-awareness, Gromwûsh decided to wear his bangs long to disguise this fact.


	3. Chapter III

Morsnak wrapped the borrowed cloak around himself. Normally it was quite hot in Mordor, and as with all hot places, it was very cold at night. He shivered, and looked over at Corporal Zagluk. Despite his stomach churning appearance and his initial feelings of mistrust, Morsnak found the Corporal to be a very caring individual.

For example, an hour earlier, as they rounded a corner, they came across a mugger plying his trade. Zagluk, or Zaggy as he preferred to be called, had waved Morsnak on and said that he could have this one. Morsnak vaguely recalled that he said it was both fun and easy.

Later, when pulling Morsnak out of the muck, Zaggy had said that muggers often did that to fresh blood, but after a few years they would line up to surrender. Morsnak had beamed at the praise. Or at least he beamed at what he thought was praise, but was oddly punctured with fits of orcish sniggering, which is normally emitted at a decibel level loud enough to shatter eardrums.

But now, at two A.M., with the novelty of patrolling wearing off, Morsnak found himself understanding why watchmen were always so ecstatic to go back to the watch house and have a mug of hot cocoa. He returned his attention to the 'beat' as the watchmen called it; people who did not pay attention in Udûn found themselves lying naked in a ditch, staring up at the stars and with their throat slit more often than not.

There were only five beats in Udûn. There was Broad Way, which was the straight, main street that led all the way from The Black Gate to Isenmouthe, Thespian Road to Crook Alley, which contained the watch house. Then there was the gate itself; it had a broad road running down the center that was paved with large cobblestones. In times of relative peace1, it was a highly popular and contested spot for selling merchandise.

The way up to the Gate Way was through a series of tunnels on the north-western end. The tunnels formed a complex network that stretched all across the valley and out to the two tower-forts beyond the gate.

Morsnak had been very relieved when he learned that they would not be required to man the towers. He had a terrible fear of heights and was claustrophobic to boot (it didn't look very roomy inside those towers). Zaggy had kindly offered to take him up on a tour after Morsnak had told him this. Morsnak decided that Zaggy was a bit hard of hearing, bless him.

He had also decided that the permanent and unsettling smirk on Zaggy's face was supposed to be a sign of friendship. Or at least he prayed that it was.

Brushing up to the north-east side of the gate was the tangled mass of alleys that was commonly known as The Pits. It's official name, Morsnak noted, was Under-gate. It was always good to learn interesting facts in order to surprise smug locals.

At the moment they were currently prowling the dim, narrow streets of The Pits. Zaggy had said that it was best that he learn this route first, because they wouldn't be able to go there after the soldiers arrived. Then he gave Morsnak a conspiratorial dig in the ribs and winked. Morsnak couldn't imagine why anyone would want to be in these streets at all.

So he decided to speak his mind. He cleared his throat while Zagluk pulled a dog-end from some unseen pocket and lit it. "Sir," he said, "I still don't understand why anyone would want to come down here."

Zaggy snorted and put out his dog-end with the snot, "And I had you ear-marked as a clever lad. Possibly even a Zaggy-junior to take over the bribe-and-blackmail business when I retire." He sighed and selected another dog-end, of which he had a seemingly limitless supply. "Use your eyes lad! Take a look around."

"I don't want to anymore sir. There's lady-orcs wearing pink feathers and not much else, and for Morgoth's sake there're _humans_ here! Humans! Everyone knows they're filthier than us!" said Morsnak with extreme disdain.

"I thought you said you had a few humans you talked to about..." Zaggy paused, apparently thinking, and took a deep draw on his dog-end, "...art, 'n stuff. Y'know, wimmin in the nudd an' all that."

"But that's _different_," protested Morsnak, "It was just talking! I didn't tell them to parade around in their unders!"

"Unders? Wossat?"

"You know..." Morsnak muttered, "What you wear, er, under your pants..."

"Don't wear anything under my pants, lad."

"Doesn't it...wrankle?"

"Not since I started puttin' that cream that Sharahk sells on it. 'S got herbs in."

Deciding not to speak his thoughts of the authenticity of the so-called 'herbs, Morsnak replied, "Of course, sir."

"But lad, d'y'know that when, er, when a soldier, or any orc fer that matter, gets lonely... there are... things he needs, y'know... comforts of home, an' all that."

"You mean like a hot meal, socks without holes in, fresh sheets?"

"No, s'not like that atall. Most o' the lads I know don't even wear socks, or have sheets neither. S'more like...ferbidden stuff... pleasures of the wossname."

"Like what, sir?"

Zaggy stared up into the bright, shining face of Lance-Constable Morsnak, "Well...he...well...you see...er...forget I ever mentioned it, okay?"

"Yessir."

"Good," Zaggy looked around shadily, "Now if anyone offers you a thrupenny stander, tell them to bugger off, and if they get smart with you after that, hit 'em wit' your nightstick."

"Why?"

"Because it's only worth tuppence! Thass price gouging that is! And the way they do it so shoddy around here, it's not even really worth three for a penny!"

"What is a thrupenny stander, anyway?"

"Er," Zaggy's face turned a shade of muted orange, which was the equivalent of a blush, "It's a pad. For the soles of your boots."

"So why shouldn't I purchase some? My boots are, well, uncomfortable."

"Believe you me; you should by these pads from Dr. Sharku down on Broad Way. He'll sell you some good ones."

"Gosh, thanks Corporal!"

"Don't mention it kid. You wanna roll-up?"

Morsnak looked condescendingly at the proffered dog-end, and sniffed, "No thank you sir. I don't smoke. I've always thought it was bad for you."

"Suit yerself." Zagluk took the current dog-end from his mouth, put it back in his pocket, lit up another and took a long draw on it, "Ah. D'you drink then?"

"Not much, sir. And shouldn't we be patrolling sir?" said Morsnak reproachfully.

"Yes, yes, yes," Zaggy waved his hand vaguely, "We _will_ be, Lance-Constable. The pub is on our route, y'see. It's a wretched hive of scum. And who's to say we can't have a drink while we're upholding the law?"

"Er...no one sir?"  
"Exactly! Now let's get moving, shall we?"

They set off through the shambling alleyways, Morsnak limping slightly ("You'll have better luck on your second go," declared Zaggy as the gang of snotty-nosed orc children left their victim and advanced on the duo. Shortly thereafter, Zaggy had vacated the premises, coming back in time to drag Morsnak into an alleyway to hide).

Zaggy attempted to play host on the way to the tavern. He wasn't very good at it, thought Morsnak, bless him for trying though. He seemed to be only interested in the sequin-clad young-ladies, and knew a great number of them by name, and so called out to them. Obscenely.

Morsnak was therefore glad when they reached the tavern. Surely there would not be any young women in there who would punch Zaggy in the face and kick him in the tonkers in there. One could see that Morsnak had never been in a tavern in his life.

The tavern was called Minas Ethyl. He grabbed Zaggy by the shoulder, who recoiled, and pointed excitedly at the sign, smiling broadly.

Zaggy shifted position so that Morsnak's hand slipped off his shoulder, taking nearly an inch of grease and grime with it. "Yeah," he said, spitting out his dog-end and lighting another, "That's a tav-ern si-gn. It is used for ad-ver-tis-ing pur-po-ses. People see the si-gn and say, 'Gee, that looks like a great place to get drunk,' and then they go in."

"Yes, I know the principles behind advertising," said Morsnak irately, "But don't you see the joke?"

Zaggy scratched the stubble on his chin and looked up at the sign. After a moment, he turned back to Morsnak, "Nope. Is it in them real small letters because you see, my eyesight ain't what it used to be..."

"No! No! Minas Ethyl? The Tower of Alcohol? Get it? No?" he said, eyeing the blank look on Zaggy's face. There was a moment's awkward silence. "Who owns this place?" Morsnak asked, hoping to meet someone who had a basic sense of punning.

"Er," said Zaggy, walking in, "I dunno. I suppose Lady Ulruk, she lives over in Northern Nurn, she _owns_ the place, but Big Abu runs it from day to day. And Sharahk the Merchant's got a deal wit Big Abu; he gets a permanent cut of the profits or he poisons the beer. Dunno if that counts as ownership."

"Poison the beer?" asked Morsnak as he followed his partner, "How would he do that?"

"Add his merchandise to the vats," replied Zaggy, sidling into the shadows. He gravitated to the shadows; it was probably a survival trait of some sort. Somehow he made it up to the bar while staying within the general gloom. It was quite impressive."Ello Zaggy," said the huge figure in the shadows2, "That'll be a 'How's-yer-mum" then?"

"Wit an umbrella innit," said Zaggy happily. He sat down on a stool, and turned back to his partner. With immense disdain, he snarled, "What the hell are you doing?"

Morsnak looked crestfallen, "You mean you can see me?"

"'Course I can see you! Yer edgin' along the wall like an idiot!"

The huge shadow behind the bar returned with Zaggy's drink. Morsnak thought that he saw white teeth flash in the dim light of a wax-encrusted chandelier. "That a sure way to get splinters in yer arse, bwana."

"Too right, Abu," said Zaggy, lifting the nearly opaque glass into the air, "Bottoms up." He immediately broke out into a fit of coughing and wheezing, "Yep! That's the stuff!" He fell off his barstool and starred at the ceiling.

Big Abu shook his head, or at least Morsnak assumed he shook his head. He was _good_ at lurking in the shadows. "Why you do that to yourself, Zaggy...I mean, Ikutiki3, lamp oil and gin. You gonna _kill_ youself bwana."

Zaggy made a valiant effort to stand up, made it to his knees, pulled a barstool with Morsnak perched atop in close to him and vomited. Morsnak leapt off his chair and edged away.

Big Abu frowned, or at least Morsnak felt an aura of frown radiating off of him, "An' I jus' put down new sawdust too."

Morsnak surreptitiously squeezed into the corner (also in the shadows), and made a valiant attempt not to be noticed. Alas, slinking about and hiding in the shadows in the corner is one art form that Morsnak had never attempted, and thus he stuck out and was blaringly obvious like...something that sticks out and is blaringly obvious.

There came the sound of spitting from the general location of Big Abu, and then the squeak of cloth on wet glass. Morsnak got the feeling that the bartender's looming presence was watching him bemusedly.

"You can't half lurk around in da shadows bwana."

Morsnak tried using his shoulder blades to dig into the wall. "How 'bout now?" he asked as he nestled them into the inches deep grooves.

"Well, I set back two dollas now, but no change otherwise."

"Bugger."

Morsnak gave up and walked back over to the bar, taking care not to step on the still retching form of Corporal Zagluk. He could see approximately four teeth gleam as Big Abu grinned. From out of the darkness, a glass was pushed at him. It bubbled. He tentatively took a sip as Big Abu continued.

"You ain't got da look of a mil'try man 'bout you, er..."

"Morsnak," added the same helpfully.

"Ya, Morsnak. What you join da watch for eh? Do a few murders, didja?"

Morsnak looked taken aback, "Goodness, no! Nothing like that at all!"

"Ah," there was a hollow cavernous sound, and Morsnak realized that Big Abu was tapping the side of his nose, "Thievin' then? Some items went missing and unaccountably turned up in your gear, an' all of a sudden they were breaking out the shampoo and bath oils, and you had to high-tail it quick?"4

"Certainly not!"

"Did ya get a girl into trouble, then?"

"No!"

"Your father sent you away because he thought you were a disgrace to orcish traditions."

"Spot on. Tipped slaves pennies, gave sums to beggars, style of thing."

He was hit full in the face with a spray of lukewarm Ikutiki hit him full in the face. Big Abu lurched forward out of the shadows, half a ton of flesh. Small, twitchy orcs in the other convenient shadows in the bar jumped at the jarring impact, drawing knives and other, less easily nomenclatured weaponry.

In an orc-bar, everyone is on edge, everyone is armed, it is dark, and there is no room to maneuver. Thusly, four were killed as a result of the mass drawing of weapons, one from being knocked into his beer, and eight were on the floor writhing. Blood, opting to skip the pooling stage, was eating into the woodwork.

Amid the moans and groans and screamed obscenities, Big Abu hauled himself back up. He smiled, wiping his mouth as he said, "I can see why Radrak considers you a bit of a disgrace, bwana. But don't worry, we see all sorts in here. Once, we had a monk who gave all his money to a group of slaves. Dey thought he was coming the raw prawn of course, but he was really a few palms short of an oasis. Swept da floors here for a bit. Disgusting, 'ow clean dey were. You coulda eaten off dem and not gotten a single bit of filth in?"

"And everyone knows the termites provide extra protein," added the recumbent Zaggy.

"S'right," said Big Abu. Glancing up, he noticed the shocked visage of Morsnak. He nodded, "You spill something hot on your lap bwana?"

"Mwaa..." came the somewhat distraught reply.

Big Abu leaned over the bar and peered down at semi-prone lump of flesh that was Corporal Zagluk. With two fingers like sausages the big man poked the prostate orc,

"It he alright? Only, he makin' noise like he isn't."

Zaggy lifted his head, swaying slightly as he did so. He looked up at Morsnak in his borrowed pants, and said, "Ugh! He just pissed Grishrat's best pair of trousers!" Rather weakly and unsteadily, he reached out and smacked Morsnak on the leg, "What'd you go do that for?"

"Mwaa..." replied the distressed Lance-Constable as he pointed a filth-encrusted finger at the looming, _human_ figure of Big Abu.

"Damnit kid, what's the matter with you?"

Morsnak's wavering finger shifted from the bartender, to his drink and then up to his mouth, making choking noises. Big Abu nodded knowingly,

"'S his drink. Not many can hold that kind of liquor in them too long."

As if on cue, Morsnak vomited vehemently all over the bar top. The bartender nodded, "See, what'd I tell you?"

"You're..._human_," said Morsnak hoarsely, "I accepted a drink from a _human_." For a quiet soul such as Morsnak, the previous sentence was an astonishing verbal feat. He managed to project into one word what it normally takes a wide variety of swear words and witch-doctor curses to portray.

"Very observant lad, I'd say," said Big Abu vaguely.

"Everyone _knows_ your filthier than us! You smell funny, you all do! And just the presence of you can lower an orc's IQ by several points."

"You been talkin' to me for twenny minute, bwana. It a wonder you can still speak, eh?"

"The fact of the matter is," spluttered Morsnak, "That you're all just...just...not _right_!"

"That a bit hippo-critical of you Morsnak. All da tings Radrak say about you make me tink you a bit of a human symaptizer. You were trying to get them wages, I hear."

"Yeah, but..." Morsnak stopped for a moment. This _was_ hypocritical, and therefore very unlike him. He struggled to rationalize, which was also something he would very rarely do. He put it down to all the funny smells, "We-ll, would you feed a dog that was fresh out of the dung-heaps?"

"Ye-ss," said Big Abu slowly. He wasn't very good with metaphor.

"Would you let it sleep in your bed?"

The big human's eyes narrowed, "Dat was uncalled for."

"When you get right down to it," continued Morsnak, pointedly ignoring Zaggy's frantic hand signals from down on the floor in a characteristic display of not knowing when to drop a subject, "The fact of the matter is that you're a bloody _human_."

It was the swear word coming from the delicate orc's mouth that attracted the attention of the bar's other denizens. This was not something that a person like Morsnak needs on their first day on the job.

"Yeah, and he makes the damn best drinks north of Cirith Ungol, friend," came a low menacing voice from behind the guardsmen. The hairs on the back of Morsnak's neck stood straight up, no mean feat. Written deep within the subconscious of every individual is a deep mistrust of anyone that pronounces 'friend' with the same inflection as 'victim'.

Zaggy obviously felt this instinct rise to the surface, as he quickly stood up and bolted for the door, muttering something like, 'I'll just leave you to handle this Lance-Constable,' as he left. Morsnak turned around to see two dozen armed orcs standing behind him.

"Well," said the foremost orc, "Have you anything to say to our good friend Abu?"

Morsnak glanced at the assorted weaponry of the orcs and said, unsteadily, "Uh, drop your weapons or I'll arrest you?"

The orc grinned, revealing filed teeth. They were black; not the rotted-away black, the I-just-tore-out-someone's-throat-with-my-teeth-and-this-is-dried-blood black.

"I am an officer of the law?" said Morsnak weakly as liquid trickled down his leg.

"Oh good," said someone from the back of the crowd, "That opens a huge range of options on what we can do with your badge."

"Eep?"

"Hey! Where's he going?"

"Gerrim!"

Big Abu, with speed unusual for one so fat, started hiding all of the bottles and glasses behind the counter as the mob chased after the retreating Lance Constable.

Luckily for him, mob-IQ is lower than that of most things that grow on bread that has been in the pantry too long.

Captain de Vile moved at a leisurely stroll down the Pits, smoking a fine Umbar cigar, and chatting idly with Gromwûsh.

"So, Sergeant, have you had your holidays yet this year?"

"No, sir. Been thinking about visiting Mount Doom again. I can never get enough of that place."

"Ah." A pause. "Which of your dependants has been misbehaving this time?"

"Rihr. He's being a right pain i'th'arse to be honest, sir."

"You've tried the branding irons?"

"He just seems to enjoy them."

"Bloody hell."

"Yes sir."

Another pause.

"I guess that's the only thing to do with ones like that; you know, push them into the Crack of Doom."

"I've been considering just slitting his throat, if it means I can spend my holidays somewhere where I dun come out all crispy."

De Vile shook his head, throwing ash to the winds. He hunched his shoulders and leaned against the nearest wall, creating a little hut of warmth and peace. It was short lived, however.

Corporal Zagluk came tearing around the corner as though his bum was alight. Nearly crashing into Hut De Vile, he tried to regain his breath and a semblance of composure, which was difficult, as he had neither to begin with.

"Captain," he wheezed, "They're...kill...kid. In Minas...Ethyl."

"And you left him?" asked Captain De Vile incredulously.

"I thought your motto was 'Never drop your mates into the cacky,' Corporal," said Gromwûsh, "I'm rather disappointed in you."

"It...only applies...to other...people...in...regards to me," Zagluk wheezed.

"I should've guessed," rumbled Gromwûsh, "So many of your bloody policies and mottos do."

De Vile sighed. "I suppose we'd better get over there, then." He stubbed out his cigar on the wall, leaving a small hole in the woodwork. Then he pulled out his truncheon, wiggled his helmet until it was secure on his head and said, "Boys, let's go prod buttock."

"So long as I don't get mine prodded in return, thass all 'm sayin'," muttered Zaggy.

They stopped at the end of the street, where they could hear the screams and the tinkle of broken glass. A chair flew out through the window and into an alley, from which issued a scream of pain, followed shortly by a half-naked orc. The three guards-orcs looked at each other, rocking on their toes in an ashamed manner.

There was a screech from inside so loud that the aural nerves shut down. Captain De Vile winced; a rare sign of sympathy. He pushed Corporal Zaggy forward, surreptitiously wiping his hands on Gromwûsh's jerkin.

"Go on then Corporal," he said.

"Why me?" whined Zagluk.

"We-ll, it's on account of you bein' the least senior officer present, an' he's your partner," replied De Vile, "An' an' an'... just do it, Zaggy! I don't need to give you a reason! 'M your commandin' officer!"

"We-ll," said Zaggy with the air of someone speaking to a small child, "_I _think tha', tha', tha' _this_ task should be del-e-gated to Sergeant Gromwûsh, on account of him bein' the biggest an' strongest of our squad."

"Hrm?" asked Sergeant Gromwûsh, still staring with a calculating expression at the half-clothed orc who had fallen out of the alleyway.

"We think you should go rescue him, Sarge," murmured Zaggy.

"_We_?" hissed Captain De Vile.

"Why?" asked Gromwûsh, "I mean, I know it was us what started the fight what knocked him out, but I dun think we need to rescue him. Besides, he's probably got a change purse. An' the boots are always worth somethin'."

"What are you blabbering about _now_, Gromwûsh?"

"Well, he's uncon-, uncon-, unconsci-, out cold damnit, innit he? Best time to nick boots dat."

"Try to keep up will you, Gromwûsh?" sighed De Vile.

"Sir. What is it dat I'm supposed to do sir?"

They told him. Gromwûsh's face twisted into a far more grotesque shape that probably indicated disgust. Then he smiled, if you could call it a smile. The corners of his lips turned up and his eyes narrowed. The other two sighed and braced for what was about to come.

Gromwûsh was about to try cunning.

This may not sound like much of a thing at all, but to someone who prefers to walk _through_ doors rather than figuring out how the knob works it is quite a feat indeed. However, to the knowledge of Captain De Vile and Corporal Zaggy, Gromwûsh had never been able to come close to pulling it off properly.

"W-ell," started Gromwûsh, the other two wincing at the misplaced dash, "I tink, I tink dat, this task should be de-gated to the Captain, on account of...er...er..."

De Vile and Zaggy exchanged slight nods; here was where it would all fall apart, like every other time.

"...On account of me not wantin' to do it and sneakily fobbin' it off to him," finished Gromwûsh, who beamed.

The sounds emitting from the bar seemed to decrease in volume, as if joining in the shocked pause. Zaggy coughed.

"That ain't gonna cut it, 'm afraid, sarge," he said, pulling another dog-end from behind his pointed ear.

"Oh. All right then. How about, someone else does it, or I'll punch 'em inna face. How 'bout dat?"

"Hmm," said Zaggy thoughtfully, "Better."

"Bugger this!" shouted De Vile suddenly, slamming his truncheon into his palm. His face shifted from its normal, if not care-free than couldn't-be-bothered, expression into one of stern, if asinine, heroism, "One of our boyos is in there and I'll be damned if we leave him in there! Zaggy! Gromwûsh! Get your arses in...big metal disc thing with teeth!"

He marched down the rickety cobblestones down towards Minas Ethyl, which was only a story high and tower-like at all in any way. The corporal and the sergeant followed him out of morbid curiosity. They had seen Shagwakh De Vile like this before, usually right before everything went all fruit-shaped and somebody died a horrible death. They usually tagged along, if only to see who it was.

Shagwakh De Vile would be the first to admit that he wasn't a particularly brave orc. Actually, he wouldn't, because he would probably be legging it to the nearest hidey-hole if the occasion to ever do so arose. But the _point_ was that while he ran away at the sight of a small, not very vicious puppy, he would probably charge headlong into a regiment of enemy cavalry if they had another guards-orc in their clutches. This was because Shagwakh De Vile had a philosophy.

It went something like this: If you were a copper, you looked after your own. You kept to yourselves, and you never, ever, crossed people who could kill you. If you did, you didn't leave your mates to take the piss, because they were your _mates_, and all that coppers had were one another. You kept your head down, you took your lumps, and above all, you _looked after your mates_.

It was a philosophy that had gotten him into a lot of trouble with a great variety of parties. Shagwakh, although he couldn't read if you cut off all of his fingers, had a sort of genius that very few orcs achieve. He could look at the enemy and _think_. He didn't just mindlessly charge, because that meant that your mates died, and _nothing_ was more important than your mates.

Once, before he ran in terror at the sound of a miaow, he had been a general in Sauron's army, one of the most privileged orcs in all of Mordor. Then he had been ordered to pacify a village in Harad, and when you try to pacify the Haradrim, they pacify right back at you. One thing had led to another, and there had been Words between Shagwakh and the lord commander of the regiment. He had relinquished his rank and sat back on the sidelines in protest, for what good it did. They charged in anyway, and out of a regiment, four walked out again.

The problem was that everyone was so bloody _stupid_, he would often think. They assumed that the sight of a lot of armed orcs with the same emblem on their shields would frighten anyone into submission, and that humans would run away if you screamed loud enough.

Giving him Gate-watch and the Udûn City Guard had been a private dig at his expense among the Lords of Mordor. He was just another used up tool; albeit one with a little use left in him. It made his blood boil.

But he kept his head down, and he took his lumps, and he drank a lot, mostly to forget, but sometimes just because the world seemed less daft when it was seen through the bottom of a glass. Then, a year ago, he had joined a bunch of other drunkards down at Snuck-About Lane and stopped drinking. Now he had anger issues a mile wide, because all the cares and rage at everyone doing it _wrong_ that had either drowned in the soft nectar of alcohol or passed out with his water now just brimmed up to the top and _spilled over_.

Normally he just pounded holes in the cellar walls, but sometimes, when one of his was in it deep, it would leak out in another way. Sergeant Gromwûsh, to whom nomenclature came to about as easily as trigonometry came to a limpet, had taken to calling it, well, _IT_, always capitalized and in italics, without exception.

And so, Captain De Vile stormed into the bar with a face set in stone and his truncheon raised above his head. The noise stopped, and for a moment there was a calculating silence and then the screams started again, punctuated every so often by a resounding 'thok', as could be made a heavy piece of wood connecting with a nearly-hollow head.

It stopped.

Cautiously, Zaggy and Gromwûsh eased their heads around the edge of the door-frame. De Vile was standing in the center of a ragged semi-circle of semi-conscious, unconscious, and probably-dead orcs. Morsnak was nowhere to be seen. Gromwûsh whistled softly, causing some miraculously un-smashed glasses on corner tables to vibrate off the edge of the table.

"Dunno what all the fuss is about," muttered a low voice under a pile of broken chairs and tables, "All I said that he was human. No law agains' pointin' out the obvious, and I would know, bein' a copper an' all."

De Vile walked over to the pile and flipped a table over with his boot. Huddled under it was a much shaken Lance Constable Morsnak. De Vile held out a hand, and Morsnak looked at it as though it was going to explode. Eventually, he took the proffered hand, stood up and looked around.

Zaggy was going through the pockets of all of the prone figures, nicking any small items of jewelry he found as he went. He smiled brightly when he noticed Morsnak watching him.

"Knew I was keeping you around for something! There's a year's pay in this liddle lot if I'm any judge."

"Ehng," muttered Morsnak.

"And the way you ducked under the table and let 'em finish one another off, well, all I can say is that you're a bleedin' pro-di-jee!"

"Ehng."

There was a sound like a gale sweeping down a coast, and Morsnak realized that Big Abu was sighing. He swiftly ducked behind De Vile and poked his head out warily. Big Abu was looking with a jaundiced eye at the extensive damage; nearly every glass and bottle in the bar was broken, save a few rescued by the bartender or sheer luck. _And_there was a great deal of damage to the woodwork, which made him despair more.

In a place like Udûn, where glass can easily be made from the abundant sand supply and forges that are built over volcanic hotspots but wood has to be carted five hundred miles away, there is a reversal of class-dwellings. Houses that are made of stone belong to the poor; anyone with a chisel and a sense of what they're doing can make a house out of stone. No, the truly wealthy lived in houses made of the same wood that the poorest woodsman lived in. Not the same exact wood, of course, the same type of wood.

In fact, the Watch-house had once been made of wood. But after the third time it had been burnt down on a dare5, the city council had decided it wasn't worth the cost and built it again out of stone.

De Vile winced in sympathy as he surveyed the damage. This had been a damn good fight and it would take a lot more than some spit and mortar to pay for these damages. He looked severely at Zaggy, who was trying to avoid Big Abu's soulful gaze. The corporal ignored him, but shuffled around in a way that suggested that he was standing on needles. The captain coughed pointedly.

"Oh all right, all _right_!" groaned Zaggy. He grinned sheepishly up at Big Abu, "Split it with you? Sixty-thirty?"

He cringed as Captain De Vile frowned and moved forward.

"I still don't see why I had to give him all of it!"

De Vile gritted his teeth, and jammed his helmet down further over his head, although all this did was give the constant stream of protests a tinny and echoing quality. He hunched up his shoulders and kept his eyes straight ahead, at a point on the pavement eight feet away. Behind him, Gromwûsh berated Zaggy for, among other things, e.g. his kleptomaniacal habits and for running several protection rackets in Lower Broadway and Small Street, his lack of selflessness.

Beside him walked a dazed Morsnak, who was not, in fact, looking at anything at all, because he had slipped on broken glass on his way out the door and had banged his head on the cobblestones. De Vile had wondered briefly what had happened to his helmet, but had quickly decided that Zaggy had nicked and sold it, and already it was an ornamental tea set. It didn't matter; they had enough armor for a regiment in the basement in the watchhouse.

Once upon a time, there had been over five hundred guards-orcs in the Udûn Gate Watch. What the men in The West didn't notice, being far to preoccupied with their own decline, was that the glory years of the orcs had been over since S.A. 3320, when Arnor and Gondor were founded. Without an embodied Sauron to lead them, their glory just seemed to fade.

Sauron might have seen the War of the Ring as a method of regaining his beloved ring, but the orcs saw it as a return to the glory years of the First Age, and they dreamed...

They dreamed of having everything once again.

They dreamed of piles of jewels and precious metals piled high against the walls of their wooden mansions.

They dreamed that the sun would be blotted from the sky, and they would walk freely under the darkness once again.

And De Vile dreamed that dream. He told himself he _had_ to dream that dream, otherwise what was the point of living? What was the point of serving? He might as well march up to the front door of the Barad-dûr and proclaim loudly that Sauron was a git.

Mostly, he just wanted his life to mean something again. He wanted being a copper to actually be a job that was offered in pamphlets. Not that it would matter, as most potential coppers couldn't read, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered. And if that meant that he had to subscribe to something he didn't believe in, than so be it.

He was so caught up in his quasi-dreams that he didn't notice the look on the young lance-constable's face. It was not the glazed, barely-conscious look he would have expected. It was one of puzzlement, certainly, but calm, calculating kind.

Morsnak was many things, an artist, a coward, a hypocrite, a weakling, and un-orclike in nearly everyway, but one thing he was not was unobservant. Someone with the previously stated traits would not last long if they weren't observant and quick-witted.

True, he had been in his very-first tavern brawl, but one thing that had slipped through straight into his subconscious was this: Big Abu had called his father by his first name twice. He had mentioned that his father had been saying nasty things about him.

Neither of these things on their own or together bothered Morsnak much. Anyone was entitled to call his father by name, and he was used to his father saying nasty things about him; it was practically his job. It was, in fact, the only job he did, as he had thralls to do everything else.

No, what bothered Morsnak was that these things had come out of the mouth of Big Abu. He felt certain that Big Abu had never met his father, because he would have remembered him. It was very difficult to forget someone like Big Abu, regardless of how hard one tried. It troubled him deeply, but he decided to let it lie for now.

A month slunk by, embarrassed at having to be in Udûn, a city only more significant than the shanty-towns of the armies only because the buildings stayed in one place for more than five weeks.

Lance-Constable Morsnak had gone to the metal-smith the day after the incident at Minas Ethyl. He had twenty-five dollars with him, which was the equivalent of a month's pay. In addition, he had fifteen dollars that De Vile had insisted that Zaggy give to Morsnak, seeing as he was the cause of Zaggy's good fortune.

So, Morsnak had decided to go all the way; black leather britches, chain mail that wasn't even _beginning_ to rust, a highly stylized breastplate with muscles of massive proportions engraved in it, and a new helmet, scrounged off of a Gondorian corpse. It had been painted black, but glints of silver and wing designs could still be seen. He was an impressive sight.

Or he would have been if he didn't come up to most orc's chins, except for Zaggy of course. This sometimes gave him an advantage; the last thing many a thug ever saw was the pointed head of Lance-Constable Morsnak hurtling towards him at neck height, followed closely by Zaggy, carrying a knife and a sack. There were cells at the watchhouse, but Zaggy was a firm believer in tough love when there was money involved.

Morsnak had decided to settle down, and accept the simple life of a copper. He had nearly forgotten all about that first night on duty, but Fate, it seems, had dealt him a wild card.

De Vile was sitting in his office on a morning with a pleasantly large amount of gaseous clouds blotting out the sun. He was reading a report that a constable had written. Actually, it was Morsnak who had wrote it; in the previous month he had started a report-writing business, for which he charged only a moderate fee. Zaggy had rubbed off on Morsnak very, very quickly, and because of this had switched Morsnak to be Gromwûsh's partner, and handed the shaft to Grishrat by changing his partner to Zaggy.

He shifted in his stony seat, trying to make himself more comfortable. He gave up after a few moments, because the only way to find comfort in the standard watch-house seats was to sit on the floor.

He slid off of his seat at the only angle he could. Unfortunately, this was also an angle that brought his forehead into contact with his desk. As he curled up under his desk, clutching his head, he could have sworn he heard several distant screams. But then again, he also could have sworn that five virgins had offered him a round-trip to paradise with them and that Zaggy had ridden by on a overgrown hamster.

Regardless of their existence in reality, the screams burnt their way through alcohol built roadblocks along the pathways of De Vile's brain and touched a point that did not like to be touched. In a psychological sense, of course.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. It was that time of year again. De Vile sat up as best he could. It was that time of year, when things should be getting warmer again, but that would imply that they had cooled down to begin with. It was, next Tuesday? No, Thursday. It was next Thursday; his fifteenth year of this exile to Udûn.

It always lurked in his thoughts, kept from his consciousness by roadblocks that had been set up by drinking. Every year, it broke through; either someone would remind him, or he would...hear something, that would take him back.

_'That village goes on behind the ridge,' said a younger, if not more attractive, Shagwakh, 'Out of sight does not necessarily mean that it does not exist.'_

_'Nonsense old boy,' said Lord Jahrk on his black horse, black plumes in his helmet. The horse looked disgusted at its cargo. 'You simply don't know how it is done. We charge in there in a jolly line, shouting and screaming, and the heathen Haradrim runs away at the mere threat of jolly dismemberment, wot! Understand? Jolly good.'_

_Shagwakh removed his plumed helmet (also black), and dropped on the ground. Lord Jahrk raised a bushy eyebrow as his general handed him his sword._

_'Throwing in the towel in the face of victory? You're a strange one Shagwakh,' Lord Jahrk patted him on the head in a patronizing way, "You just don't have enough experience in the field, old sport.'_

_'I do believe that I have five more years than you, lord,' said Shagwakh, sitting down a few feet away. He glared meaningfully at his lieutenants behind Lord Jahrk, 'I won't participate in the death of my orcs.'_

_But the lieutenants know that a chance such as the one that has just presented is a very rare one indeed. The senior lieutenant coughed, saying, 'If we can leave the unbelieving behind, lord, I believe we can flank the village if one of our officers distracts them by reading them a peace offering.'_

_'You can't outflank an enemy you don't know the size of!' shouted Shagwakh furiously, but was ignored._

_'Splendid!' boomed Lord Jahrk, 'You instigate this plan Captain, er, what did you say your name was old boy?'_

_'Larsh, my lord.'_

_'Capital. You'll go far in this orc's army, lad.'_

De Vile shook his head; Captain Larsh had indeed gone far. As far as he knew, they were still looking for wayward bits of him that had come flying out of the ensuing fray. And they never did find his nose, not even when they cut open all the bodies.

_They were all lined up on the crest of the ridge in three groups of six ranks and twelve files. One spread out until there were only two ranks, and the other two tightened up and moved to the sides._

_The newly-christened Captain Larsh rode at the head of the central formation, and he was wearing Shagwakh's helmet. He struck a pose on his horse (black), and signaled to the trumpeters. Without checking to see if his flanking forces were in position, he charged straight into the village, screaming bloody murder._

_Which was in fact what happened to him. Even from the crest of the ridge where he sat, Shagwakh de Vile could see him run straight into the open arms of the sinisterly grinning Haradrim._

_And then the screams started. _

_And then they didn't stop._

_Even Lord Jahrk looked away, an only marginally dirty handkerchief clutched to his mouth. But Shagwakh De Vile kept watching. In the first eight minutes of the fight, more soldiers died than he had ever lost in his entire military career._

_And when the last four survivors walked out sixteen minutes later, Jahrk had rode up to them and proclaimed the battle a glorious victory, and they were swept up by it. He made them all generals on the spot. Then they burned the village._

_Even then, Shagwakh De Vile had wondered, 'Why?' Why was this a glorious victory? He had destroyed armies, cities, empires and had received no recognition. This was just the village of a relatively poor tribe, and it was proclaimed a glorious victory. Why, because more of our soldiers died? In that moment, the younger Shagwakh had come up with the political opinion that had steered his decisions for the next fifteen years:_

_Every single Lord, General, Noble, and Aristocrat was a bloody idiot who couldn't find his own bum, on account of not being able to find their hands with which to find their bums._

_And his former soldiers had been _smug_ to him._

_Then they had been part of the council that had court-martialed him._

He supposed that he had to thank them; without them it would have been a far worse punishment.

_Within a month, he was in Udûn. Within two, he had always been there. It was enough to drive an orc to drink._

Yes, a drink. A drink would be nice right now. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk with a wild ferocity normally only seen in starving predators. There was a bottle of whiskey in the bottom (Sharahk's Authentic Mountain Brew, No Proof, Only Circumstantial Evidence!). The soft slosh of the amber liquid called to De Vile. It said, 'Drink me, and I'll make all those memories go away.'

The big hurdle, they called down at the meetings. The first time you had to face what made you drink sober. They said that every time after that it got easier. De Vile said that they were tight bastards who got pleasure out of watching him suffer. But then again, he said that about just about everybody.

The slosh of the bottle lulled him into a trance. He didn't drink it, but sat there, staring at it. Then Grishrat burst into the room, shouting. De Vile didn't look up.

Grishrat felt his jaw dropping of its own accord, staring at his captain looking at a bottle of whiskey that he wasn't supposed to have. He pulled himself together and coughed loudly. De Vile seemed to come out of a trance.

"Yes?" he asked as he shook his head and took a deep breath. Curiously, he sniffed the air. And then again. "Do you smell something burning?"

"Yes, sir, there's..." started Grishrat urgently.

De Vile stood up, "Is Zaggy doing his ironing again? I told him that I'd have to bust him down to Constable if he burnt down the bloody watch-house again."

"_No_ sir. There's..."

"Sergeant Gromwûsh is trying to do that intelligence test the boys gave him for a joke again, isn't he?" said De Vile as he pulled on his boots. He lifted his head and sniffed the air again, "No. Can't be that. I don't smell dandruff." De Vile stood again and started pulling on his chainmail. An orange glare in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

He walked to the window and stuck his head out. The orange glow was coming from the south-east. "Hey, that building is burning!"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you sir," shouted Grishrat, "There's a riot at the Granary up at The Wicked Sisters. They're killing people, sir!"

"Who's killing who?" asked De Vile, frantically searching for his helmet.

"Everybody it seems," replied Grishrat, shoving the helmet into De Vile's arms, "Gromwûsh and some of the boys are up there, but they're going to need help! I've got Zaggy and two others downstairs, we'd better hurry up sir..."

But De Vile was already a rapidly disappearing blur.

1 To orcs, peace is just war that the enemy doesn't know about yet. And as the orcish word for 'enemy' directly translates as 'anyone who isn't me', one can imagine that orcs lead interesting domestic lives.

2 Every good bar has plenty of shadows for its customers and bartenders to lurk in. It's just common sense; customers in Mordor tend to look a lot like Zaggy, who was crowned Mr. Disfigured four years in a row.

3 Fermented troll urine, the national beverage of Mordor. It is very popular among the egotistical and muscle-bound, those who are egotistical and wish to be muscle-bound, the suicidal, and those who are merely stupid.

4 Orcs tend to get things the wrong way round. They bath oil and shampoo felons and bathe themselves in tar and feathers.

5 Actually, it was burnt down eight times, but five of those times it was guardsmen trying to find out which common liquids and gases were flammable.


End file.
